


The Forging of a Legend

by Skyboy91



Category: Chronicles of Prydain - Lloyd Alexander
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 08:27:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27348130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyboy91/pseuds/Skyboy91
Summary: The story of Govannion the Lame and the forging of the sword Dyrnwyn.This is written hopefully in the style of LA's "The Foundling and Other Tales of Prydain."This is a prequel to other Gwydion-centric stories that I will post, including "The Wolf in the Evening Sun."
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	1. Govannion the Lame

It was a long time ago—a _very_ long time ago—when something unusual happened in the Summer Country. The Lady Don and her consort Lord Belin, King of the Sun, ruled in peace and prosperity, and from the point of view of their many children that dwelled there, what seemed to be eternal happiness. Yet one day, in that blessed land that misfortune never seemed to touch, a child was born who was lame.

The child was named Govannion, and he was born with one leg twisted, and a bit shorter than the other. It was also clear, to his parent’s sadness, that he would never be able to father his own children. But Govannion was otherwise perfectly healthy, and as he got a little older, he was able to walk—but always with a pronounced limp, and his parents fashioned for him a walking stick. The denizens of the Summer Country, who were as rule handsome, or beautiful, and in most respects almost perfect, looked at the child with wonder, and with a little pity. But Govannion was a happy child; he did not want their pity…he seemed very pleased just to be alive, and delighted in being of service to others. 

In addition to his great kindness, Govannion was gifted with a prodigiously inventive mind. Even as a child, he imagined and built all sorts of things that even the people of the Summer Country had never seen before—wondrous metal boxes that played music all by themselves, if you turned a little key, and little wooden birds that could fly all on their own, if you turned a little wooden stick in the front. He built these things, and many more, for his own pleasure, but also for the children—and even some adults—around him. He gave them away for nothing—but many happy children and their parents rewarded him handsomely for his efforts, although he cared little for riches. 

As Govannion grew closer to manhood, his skills also grew; and in addition to toymaking, he became known as the finest smith and metalworker in all of the Summer Country. He invented a method of forging metal that was unlike anything ever seen before; the resulting steel was both flexible and strong. Blades made from it held an incredibly sharp edge, and showed a beautiful pattern like the waves of the sea. Even in the Summer Country, where wondrous things were commonplace, owning a sword or dagger forged by Govannion became a mark of distinction. 

In spite of the happiness all around him—and all of his own successes—after Govannion reached manhood he found himself growing more and more restless. As much as he was loved by many, and although he was fair of face, with deep sea green eyes and blond hair, because of his deformities none of the ladies of the Summer Country wished him as a husband. So, in some ways he was very alone. He began to dream often of the open sea, and of exploring other lands beyond the Summer Country, although he was told many times that no other land was as blessed as his own. 

One night shortly after Govannion had reached his one hundred and fifty-third year—although still with the youth and vigor of a young person in his prime, which was the blessing of all those who dwelled in their land—he was sleeping soundly in his comfortable bed. Normally if he dreamed, it was of some new idea or invention that his mind would explore in his sleep. Tonight however, he had a dream unlike any before. Three silhouettes appeared, which slowly formed themselves into three fair young maidens: the first with luxurious long hair decorated with jewels, the second with a string of white pearls at her pale throat, and the third also beautiful, but with a dark hood and rather unpleasant expression. 

“Oh Orddu,” spoke the second, I do believe he sees us. Such a pleasant young duck, although it is a shame about his leg, isn’t it?” 

“Oh do be quiet Orwen,” responded the first. “It isn’t polite so speak of someone’s deformity, at least not until you know them better.”

“Never mind his leg, I’d like to get to know him better,” snorted the third. Govannion was sure he heard lips smacking. 

“I doubt he would enjoy your type of hospitality at all, Orgoch,” responded the one that Govannion took to be Orddu, and then she turned, and with eyes bright and full of mischief, regarded Govannion. 

Suddenly Govannion realized that he was not asleep at all. He was wide awake, and the three were still there in the bedchamber with him. 

“Listen, my sparrow,” Orddu began, “we have a proposition for you. We know things are blissful here; such a neverendingly wonderful life you all lead. But paradise is not for everyone—is it, my gosling? We know that you often dream of adventure, and if it is adventure you want, we are here to deliver. We have a need of a man of both wonderful character and great practical skill, and you are the finest to be found in both those areas in all the world. We are from a land called Prydain, far to the east of here. It is also far from being like the Summer Country—it is full of danger, peril, evil and death. But in equal measure, it is also full of goodness, valor, generosity and love, if you know where and how to look.” 

“Oh, it is a wondrous and fair place in most respects, and your skills would be greatly appreciated there,” interjected Orwen, looking at Govannion with girlish admiration.

“Mostly we are offering you hardship and pain,” Orgoch added, a scowl marring her fair features, from what Govannion could tell under her hood. “I’d think twice about it, if I were you.” 

“Orgoch!” Orddu quickly broke back in, “Please remember whose side you’re on. We’ll have a hard enough time convincing the brave young tadpole, without your foul mood getting in the way. I know you’re upset that you have been Orgoch twice in a row, but you can’t really blame me for not wanting to switch places this time, your indigestion has been horrid for a week, and your breath is even worse.” 

With a heavy sigh, Orddu turned back to Govannion.

“We know we are asking you to leave your immortality behind, and travel to a place where you will grow old and die—how ridiculous a request is that? In recompense, all we can offer you is the chance to help others, in deep and important ways that you could not even begin to understand now.” 

“Whom am I to help, and why is it so important that I go?” Govannion asked. “Why me, and not someone else? It is much you ask, and I don’t understand why you ask it of me alone.”

“All very true, my wise young owlet,” Orddu continued. “We are asking much, and although you might just possibly gain much more than you realize now, the chances are just as good that you will not. Why do we ask? Well, the truth is, you see, we are looking quite far down the road, much further than you could now comprehend. Prydain is a young and fair place—not all that different from here, in some respects. But as in any pristine place, there are those that will covet it, and be jealous of it, and want it for their own—even at the cost of everything that makes if fine and beautiful. There are terrible storms coming, so terrible in fact that the poor land might be doomed, and its good people dead, destroyed—or even worse, if you can imagine. That means little to us in a sense—it is not that we are cruel, or kind exactly—we are just interested in things as they are. But just as the evil we spoke of must have its chance to prevail, so good must have the same chance. Right now, what we see in the distant future tilts the scales very far towards the evil—that we believe that you can help balance the scales for the fair and good.

“If it helps, know that if you succeed in the tasks before you, you may well make a difference _there_ that you could never make _here_. Here you can have a peaceful and long life – perhaps as long as ours, if you are careful. But what will it mean? There—that is, if you succeed, and events now and far in the future all fall into place—your name will be remembered and revered throughout history by those that come after. I know that kind of adulation means little to you, but the important thing is _why_ you will be remembered. You will have saved countless others from a fate worse than death, indeed death would be a blessing in comparison. You will enable a beautiful land and its people to endure, with beauty and love and hope, instead of only pain and darkness and death.”

“In spite of her indigestion, Orgoch did speak the truth - mostly we are offering you hardship and pain,” Orddu continued, “for none of the rest is guaranteed—but we believe in you. We know what kind of man you are. At least we think we do. So please think consider it, my fledgling—and when and if you leave, follow the rising sun.”

And with that, the three damsels faded into mist, and were gone.

* * *

Govannion wandered the rest of the night through a deep but troubled sleep, full of both beautiful and frightening dreams, but when he awoke the next morning, his mind was already made up. It was a very rare thing indeed, but he knew that according to custom, he must seek an audience with the Lady Don and Lord Belin; he could only depart the Summer Country by their leave.

Some days later Govannion was granted an audience; he arrived at the magnificent golden Palace of the Sun, and was ushered into the Great Hall. Sunlight entered through great high windows, and tapestries of breathtaking beauty, depicting the creation of the world, lined the walls. At the far end of the hall on a high dais, sat the Lady Don and Lord Belin on their thrones. The Lady was breathtakingly beautiful, with auburn hair and eyes of deepest green, similar to Govannion’ s own. Lord Belin was blonde and strikingly handsome, with eyes of cobalt blue. His face was so bright it was hard to look at directly, even for one of his own descendants. 

“Approach, my child,” beckoned the Lady. Govannion approached the dais, dropped to one knee and lowered his eyes. She bid him to rise, and Govannion did so, and brought his eyes to meet hers. 

“We have heard much about you, young Govannion,” the Lady said, “and have heard of your great skills. But it is not genius, nor glory that truly defines the greatness of a man, it is kindness —and more than anything else, we have heard of your kind heart.”

“We understand that you would like our leave to depart the Summer Country,” the Lady continued, and Govannion nodded. “May we ask what has brought you to this decision? Your home is the fairest land there is, an undying land of eternal beauty. Most in the world would wish only to come here and never leave, so your motivation must be powerful indeed. Also, it would be a great loss to not have the benefit of your talents here.” 

“First, let me express my gratitude for being granted this audience with my Lady and my Lord, Govannion began, bowing to them both. “As to the matter of my request to depart, I have been summoned—in a manner of speaking. Three ladies approached me in a dream, and told me I was needed in a land called Prydain.” Govannion proceeded to describe what he had experienced.

Lady Don and Lord Belin gave each other a meaningful glance, and this time the Lord spoke, in deep and sonorous tones. “Three ladies…yes, we know of those of whom you speak, and they are as ancient as we are. If they are speaking to you, you are wise to listen. They only appear in time of urgent need, and only to those whom they deem worthy to hear their message.”

“Indeed we have watched you, Govannion,” the Lady continued. One born in the Summer Country with any sort of deformity is exceedingly rare,” and indeed, Govannion knew of no others. “But our experience has been that when this occurs, what is not granted in one way, is more than made up in others. So if you have been called in this way, we know we must honor your request. You know you will lose your immortality—outside the Summer Country, you must live as a mortal man.” Gavannion nodded, and she continued, “But perhaps that is not so great a loss as you might imagine. Many who dwell in the Summer Country rejoice at the length of their lives, but never consider their width and depth.”

“You have our blessing,” Lord Belin said, “and anything you need to aid you in your journey will be granted. Go in peace – and may you find your way to your destiny. If your heart ever calls you home, we will be waiting.” 

“My heart thanks you, My Lord and My Lady,” Govannion said, his eyes now wet. “For whatever purpose I am called, I will always remember you and my land, and do my utmost to bring you pride.” 

The Lord and Lady looked at each other once again, words spoken between them without a sound. Govannion waited patiently through a long silence. 

Then, the Lord spoke again. “Govannion, please carry this with you to your new home.” He drew from within his robes a small sphere, like a globe of gold. “We gave a similar gift to one of our first daughters long ago, to ease her grief at leaving our country, when she was to wed the son of the Moon and the Sea. After she left us, we created a second, exactly like the first, made from a ray of the Sun and drops of the Lady’s blood. We made it to ease our own grief at our daughter’s parting, and in remembrance of her. 

“But now, we have another child who must depart from us. So we offer this to you, good Govannion. May it always remind you of Summer…and you may have use for it, before all is said and done.” 

Lord Belin held out the sphere, and for a moment it glowed with a beautiful golden light, like the sun itself had burst into the room. Then the light went out, and he put the sphere in Govannion’s trembling hands. “I will treasure it always,” Govannion said, his voice cracking with emotion. “Thank you.”

The two nodded to him, and he bowed deeply. He turned to depart, and strode quickly from the chamber, his eyes streaming. His heart told him that he would never see them again, and it was close to breaking. He did love his beautiful home, and his good people, but that did not change what he knew he must do.

In the days that followed, Govannion began work on a sailing vessel, with the aid of the finest craftsmen in the Summer Country. The craft was large enough to make a long journey, but small enough, with the aid of his craft and skill, to be managed by one man alone. A month later, the beautiful little ship was ready, and he christened it the Morning Star. Govannion said goodbye to his family and friends, who were all still completely incredulous that he would actually leave. They were sure it would be a short voyage, a little adventure and Govannion would return, back to his forge, and his place in the brightest land in all the world. 

One morning, Govannion set off nonetheless—sailing into the rising sun, the sun dappled sea reflecting like a million diamonds.

For an untold passage of days and nights, Govannion travelled. He travelled through fair weather and through storm, following the rising sun by day, and the rising moon by night. His beard began to grow long, and his supplies began to run short —and he was uncomfortably close to beginnings of despair—when at last he saw a far shore in the distance. 

As his craft sailed closer, he could see the shore was actually a pair of islands, and even further in the eastern distance, was a longer shoreline. The islands looked green and beautiful, but he knew his destination was the mainland. He sailed south of the larger island, and continued toward the long shoreline.

Somehow, he knew this was Prydain at last. The little ship bravely crossed a thundering surf of white foam, like the manes of white horses galloping into battle. He leaped out and drew the craft ashore. He carefully furled the sail, packed everything away and left the Morning Star high and dry—out of respect for the next owner, and the care he had put into building the fine vessel.

His remaining provisions and a few belongings went into a pack he carried on his back, his knife he carried at his belt. He girded on his sword, made by his own hands with all the skill he had accumulated. In his hand was his walking stick. He turned his back on the sea, and began to walk eastward.

* * *

For many days Govannion travelled on foot, limping and leaning heavily on his carved stick, but still powerfully and with purpose. He passed first through marsh lands, then through forest lands—and saw not a single person, although beautiful birds and beasts he saw in plenty. 

One day he struck a trail, almost a road, that led eastward. He did not know exactly where he was going, but he wanted to find the center of civilization here, wherever that might be. 

It was not long until he heard horses behind him, and looking back, he saw an impressive train of nine wagons. They were gaily painted, and the wagon drivers were singing as they moved along at an easy pace. 

“Hold, hold!” cried the driver of the lead wagon. “What have we here? Where are you headed, Father? You seem to be a long way from anywhere you might actually want to be.” The driver leaped from the wagon, strode over to Govannion, and put out his hand. Govannion was pleasantly surprised that the man’s speech, though slightly different from his own, was quite understandable. 

Turning and extending his hand, Govannion could see that the driver actually looked much older than he, with thick, curly hair going grey. With his unkept blonde beard and hair, Govannion suddenly realized that he looked older than he was – at least physically. Shaking his hand warmly, the driver looked him in the eye and realized his mistake. “Oh, perhaps not a father then. At least not mine,” joked the driver. “Name’s Teilo. I’m the leader of this Rover clan. We’re heading east for a while, if we can give you a ride.” 

“I would certainly be grateful,” Govannion smiled. Teilo turned and climbed back to his wagon seat, beckoning for Govannion to follow. Govannion hoisted his pack and climbed up in the driver’s seat beside Teilo, who clicked his tongue and urged his horse team onward, all the following wagon drivers following suit. 

Over the next few days, the two became good friends. Teilo was quite a loquacious man, and as Govannion was not naturally talkative—instead, he was an attentive listener—they made a fine traveling pair. Govannion could not have found a source of information better to learn about the land of Prydain. Teilo knew all the names of the various cantrevs, the main settlements and fortifications. He also seemed to have a great understanding of the politics, news and gossip of the land. For his part, Govannion told Teilo that he had traveled from an island further to the west than the islands that Teilo knew, and that he knew little of Prydain—which was close enough to the truth.

At this moment, all the land was buzzing with recent news of King Rhydderch, High King of Prydain, who lived in Cantrev Dinefwr, further to the west, in central Prydain near the valley of River Ystrad. He shared power with Arnachen, High Priestess of Prydain, who according to legend was a direct descendent of the spirit of the earth itself. 

“For years now, he and the High Priestess have been in possession of a huge iron kettle, a Crochan they call it,” Teilo explained. “From what I have heard, this Crochan is possessed by a great enchantment, and can cause miracles to happen. According to the stories, people sick and close to death are bathed in the Crochan, and when they come out, they are smiling and healthy! Men who have lost limbs in battle go into the Crochan, and again came out whole, their missing limb miraculously regrown! Men who are lame are also cured…” Teilo glanced over at Govannion, who started a bit to hear this. 

“Are we headed to Cantrev Dinefwr?” Govannion asked. 

“No,” replied Teilo, “the path of our Rover clan will take us further south, but we will pass within a few day’s walk of it.”

“I think there I will part with you,” Govannion replied, “for I would like to visit there and see these miracles for myself.” 

As they traveled eastward, Govannion continued to enjoy the hospitality of the Rovers. He heard many of their stories, and a few of their beautiful songs. He shaved his long beard, and Teilo trimmed his hair. His handsome face now revealed, he caught the glances of some of the young ladies who were part of their clan—they looked at the tall, fair and green-eyed stranger with great curiosity, and talked to him when they could. One evening, as music from various instruments was being played and many of the clan danced with each other, an attractive young lady with sable hair and mischievous dark eyes asked Govannion to dance, but he smiled and pointed to his lame leg. “I’m afraid I would be hopping like a stork before it is over,” he smiled,” but thank you so kindly for asking.” The young lady smiled sadly, and nodded.

At last one day, Teilo stopped at a crossroads and told Govannion, “this is road toward Cantrev Dinefwr, three or four days walk north will bring you there.” Govannion nodded, shook Teilo’s hand warmly, and from his pack drew a shining bar of purest gold, that he had smelted himself in the Summer Country. He made to hand it to Teilo and said, “please take this, for all your food and clothing, your company, and your kindness.” 

Teilo gasped at the sight of the bar and shook his head, and took Govannion to the back of his wagon. From there, he pulled a cloth sack and a small pair of scales from a locked box. The sack was filled with golden coins. “Here is coin such that is used here in Prydain,” Teilo said, and weighed out an equal amount to the gold that Govannion had offered him. He kept one golden coin for himself in payment, and returned the rest of the coins to Govannion. “You are a good and honest man,” Govannion told him, “and it was my great fortune to find you.” He handed Teilo another of the golden coins, and Teilo smiled. “Many do not think much of the Rovers when it comes to honesty. But in truth, we are more honest than most – with a few exceptions.

“If we never meet again, then farewell,” Teilo continued. “But the Rovers travel many roads, so perhaps we will. You are always welcome to travel with us; I’ve enjoyed your company—and some of the young ladies will miss you.” 

With that, Teilo jumped back up on his seat and waved farewell. The wagons departed down the southern road, with many a goodbye and wave from the following wagons.

* * *

Govannion strode north through lush forests and green hills, and traveled for the rest of that day, before making camp that night close beside the road.

Early the next morning, as he was eating a light breakfast, he saw a young woman moving hurriedly north on the road, with a small boy following close behind. The woman was also young, with thick long red hair that was tied in the back, and the boy had similar hair, but more straw colored. The lady kept glancing behind her nervously. 

“Good morning,” Govannion called, “such a fine morning to be traveling. You are welcome to share breakfast with me, such as it is. It is basic fare, but very fresh and wholesome.” 

The lady had not seen him, and was startled a bit when she heard his voice. She glanced over and said, “We are not hungry, thank you. Hurry along, Osian,” she said to the boy, when she saw him looking over with ill-disguised hunger, in spite of her words.

Just then, Govannion noticed three riders galloping from the south, apparently intent on overtaking the woman and the boy. Sensing that something might be amiss, Govannion stood up, girded on his sword, took his walking stick, and strode out to meet the lady—although he had some difficulty keeping pace, as she was walking quite rapidly. 

“Are you sure I cannot help you in some way, My Lady?” Govannion inquired again. The lady looked at him again, this time meeting his eyes, and he could see now that she was frightened. She was about to speak, pursed her lips and glanced over her shoulder at the approaching horsemen, who were almost upon them.

Govannion turned to face them, automatically standing between them and the young lady and boy.

The leading horseman, his face sunburned and with dark bangs across his forehead, pulled his horse up short a few steps from Govannion. “Hello Friend,” the horseman said, and Govannion nodded. “The young lady is an acquaintance of ours, she’s run away from our camp, you see, and we are just taking her home.” 

Govannion glanced at the young lady, who was shaking her head fervently in disagreement. “Apparently the young lady and her son—it is your son, I assume?” —she nodded affirmatively—“and her son, do not wish to accompany you.” 

The lead horseman dismounted quickly and strode toward Govannion, his hand on the hilt of his sword. The two other horsemen watched, but kept their distance a few paces behind. In spite of his agitation, the lead horseman spoke pleasantly enough. “My name is Ifan, and this woman—Nia is her name—is my capture. I captured her fair and square, you see, and by rights she is mine. She still has a lot to learn, and she is a bit headstrong, but I’m a patient man. 

“My patience does have its limits, however. You’re standing in my way, but I am not a man who likes to take advantage of cripples. So kindly step aside, or move on down the road, and I will take the woman and we will be gone.”

“In fact, you see,” as he saw Govannion hesitate,” I’ll even offer a silver piece for you to move along peacefully, just to be fair—although you just found her. Or if that isn’t enough, name your price for her. Just be aware that if it’s too high, it won’t go well for you.” 

“Her price?” Govannion was genuinely confused; he had never considered the possibility of money being offered for a person before. 

“Her price.” Ifan was holding out the silver piece. “I’ll ask you just one more time,” and his hand moved again to the hilt of his sword. “Again, I’m not interested in killing a cripple, but you are being quite a pain, you see, and the day is moving along. So make up your mind.”

Govannion smiled. “Ah,” he said. “Now I understand.” 

Ifan smiled broadly in return, showing a set of yellowed teeth, and again held out the silver piece.

“Her price is not measured in pieces of gold or silver,” Govannion said.

It was Ifan’s turn to look confused.

“Her price is measured in steel.” Govannion dropped his staff and unsheathed his sword with breathtaking speed and agility. His beautiful sword, with waves flowing like water across it, glittered in the sunlight.

Ifan looked stunned, but quickly drew his own blade – with his left hand, Govannion noticed. Behind him, one of the two following horsemen dismounted, drew his sword and moved closer. The other horseman, an older man, watched impassively from his saddle. 

Ifan swung his sword, but found that Govannion was not where he was a split second previously; he had rapidly sidestepped, his blade in a defensive position. Ifan drew back, momentarily confused. 

The second man moved up beside him. As this man was right-handed, Govannion faced swords from the outside from each man. Instantly he passed between the two men, their blades following him through and colliding with each other as they turned. 

Govannion immediately turned on the heel of his good leg, and again went to the center. The two swords followed him, but as they were on the weak side now, they struck his leather jacket and leggings with little force.

His razor-sharp sword was at Ifan’s neck, and a line across it began to weep blood. His elegant dagger, marked with the same pattern of flowing water, pricked the neck of the other, and a steady stream of blood flowed. “Drop your swords,” he commanded, and the two swords clattered to the ground. 

The man on the horse laughed. “Have mercy on these two young fools, Warrior,” he said. “Yes, they are fools, but there is some hope they may yet turn out to be decent men. Ifan, Cevach —back on your horses before this man loses his temper. He is clearly much more than you can handle.”

“I warned you about biting off more than you could chew, Ifan,” growled the older man. “Now look what you’ve done; you’re apt to bleed to death right here in the road.” Govannion backed away towards Nia, blade still drawn. Ifan and Cevach picked up and sheathed their swords, as the older man threw each a rag drawn from his saddlebag, which they wrapped around their wounded necks. Ifan was clearly seething with anger, and he looked at Govannion with hatred, but kept his silence.

“We’ll be on our way Sir,” the old horseman said. “Again, please pardon our hindering your journey. Best of luck with the woman.” The two mounted their horses, and the three turned and rode away south without another word.

Govannion quickly walked back to his camp, picked up his pack, and strode out to meet the lady and boy, who were now waiting for him a little further down the road.

Nia now looked at him with smiling and piercing blue eyes, and the boy Osian glanced up at him, the same large blue eyes staring from his small and earnest face. Govannion took him to be about six years of age.

“We had just run away from their camp,” Nia began. “I had no desire to spend another night in that place, and you can imagine what plans Ifan had for me.” 

Govannion nodded. “So where are you headed?” 

“Back to Cantrev Dinefwr,” said Nia. “I have some family there…we left there years ago with...with my husband,” she said with a grimace, “We built a cottage and started a farm…Osian was born, and things went not too badly for six years. But Gwatcyn grew more and more restless…farming was just more work than he wanted to do; he desired an easier life. I think he was growing tired of me anyway,” Nia said bitterly. One morning he was gone, leaving Osian and I with nothing, and precious little to eat. So I decided to go home, there really wasn’t much choice. We left everything and headed out, but it was only a couple of days later that Ifan caught us. We’ve been in his camp for five days, every day with me trying to fight him off, and with Ifan doing his best to get rid of Osian – I think he was going to sell him to some farmer as an indentured worker.

“At least they fed us,” Nia continued, and Osian looked up at him expectantly again. 

“Once again, let me invite you to breakfast,” Govannion smiled, sat down on the side of the road, and opened his pack. Nia and Osian gratefully sat down with him, and Govannion doled out the dried meat and bread that the Rovers had supplied him with, and pulled out a flask of water.

After a little food and water, and with the relief of finding themselves extricated from their previous predicament, Nia and Osian began to chat freely. Nia spoke of her family in Cantrev Dinefwr; she was longing to see them again, although some had warned her of her mistake in wedding Gwatcyn. She was sure they would take her back with open arms. 

“…And if they don’t,” Nia said, “we will find our own way.” 

Osian looked at her and nodded. “I’m old enough to work too,” he said, and Govannion smiled.

“So, Sir Govannion,” Nia said, “what are your plans?” Govannion told her a similar story to what he had told Teilo—that he was a traveler and metalworker from a far western island, here to explore Prydain, and possibly ply his trade here.

“That was quite brave, to leave your home all by yourself like that,” Nia said, “I don’t think I have ever heard such story before. You are an unusual man, Govannion.” Nia looked at him directly, and Govannion felt a slight flush in his cheeks. 

“How did you learn to fight like that? I’ve never seen a man move that way.”

“Well,” Govannion responded with a smile, “in order to forge fine swords, you must know what makes a sword fine—and the only way to know that is to learn to fight with one.”

Govannion told them of his plans to visit Cantrev Dinefwr, and perhaps stay and build a smithy. As they continued to chat gaily, Nia grew more and more animated, often breaking into open laughter. Govannion noticed her thick hair, which was naturally wild and curly, kept escaping its tie and would begin to circle her head like a frizzy red halo. Every now and then, she would pull it behind her head and tie it again, then the process would repeat. She had a saucy upturned nose, a wide mouth and large white teeth, with a slight overbite. She looked nothing like the classical beauties of the summer country. 

Govannion found her altogether lovely.

* * *

Over the next few days, the three traveled together towards Cantrev Dinefwr, and greatly enjoyed each other’s company. One morning, they arrived at a crossroads and Nia smiled at Govannion sadly. 

“Here we must part,” she said, her eyes meeting his. “Our family’s home lies further to the east.” “Thank you again for all you have done; we were so fortunate that we found you—or you found us. I have never met a man who was more generous, or more of a true gentleman. I hope we meet again, Sir Govannion.” 

“Not so more than I, my Lady Nia,” Govannion said. “I hope you find your family, and also good fortune.” 

Govannion’s heart was heavy as he stood and watched the two grow smaller in the distance, Nia carrying the rest of Govannion’s provisions in her own small bag. Before she crested a hill in the distance, Nia turned to see him once more. She waved, as he did, and then she was gone.

* * *

In two more days travel, Govannion reached Cantrev Dinefwr. The tree lined road grew busy with traffic—farmers moving back and forth with their crops and livestock, various tradesmen, and women and children shopping or selling. There were a few warriors, and one or two bards of the harp. Govannion found a moneychanger in an area set up with tents for buying and selling, and he refilled his pack with food and provisions.

In the distance, the tall spires of a proud castle stood against the blue sky. Govannion’s heart lifted, and his mind traveled back a moment to the Palace of the Sun. This was not nearly so grand, but it was beautiful, nonetheless—as was the land of Prydain. He was beginning to love it, and all of its diversity. 

As Govannion drew closer, he began to pick up pieces of the conversations around him, the whole cantrev was buzzing with the news. The Crochan was to be put to use that very evening in the courtyard of the castle. Whenever the Crochan was used, the public was invited, but they never knew until the actual event what would happen, or who might be healed.

That evening, the great gates of Caer Dinefwr were swung wide. There was already a huge throng of people waiting in the grand courtyard, and colorful banners waved in a carnival atmosphere. In the middle was a great platform, eight feet high, with wooden stairs on one side. On top stood an enormous black iron cauldron, three feet tall and sitting on its own squat iron feet. It had a long thick handle, and huge iron rings affixed to either side. The opening was hard to see from this angle, but it was clearly large enough to hold a man. 

As ludicrous as the huge cauldron looked, Govannion’s eyes grew wide when he saw it. From somewhere within his long experience and deep instinct, he knew it was not something normal; not something made by men.

Behind the Crochan’s platform, close to the doorway of the Great Hall, a covered pavilion was set up, with its own raised platform and two great wooden chairs at the center, and smaller chairs on either side. 

The sun was going down, and torches were being lit, when suddenly a trumpet sounded, and a procession emerged from the Great Hall. At the center of the procession a tall man walked regally, with dark hair and a crown of gold embedded with jewels. His dark hair and beard were streaked with grey, and he wore a dark robe. Beside him walked a striking woman dressed in crimson. She wore no crown, only a green jewel in a narrow band at her forehead, and she had hair of pure silver. She wore a cold and distant expression, as if her mind were far away, fixed on loftier matters.

The trumpet sounded again, and a great voice cried, “Give honor to Rhydderch, High King of Prydain...and to Arnachen, High Priestess of Prydain!

The observers in the courtyard cried out loudly in genuine admiration, and men rattled their swords and weapons to show their appreciation. When the noise died down, the King and Priestess took the center seats, with other nobles and dignitaries seated on either side.

The King stood again, and addressed the gathered throng. “Good people of Cantrev Dinefwr, and of all of Prydain! Welcome to you all. As many of you know, it is our tradition on these occasions to explain how the High Priestess and I came to be in possession of the Crochan, how we use it, and why we use it only sparingly.”

The crowd grew completely silent, listening intently. 

“When I was first ordained to be King by High Priestess Arnachen…” the King acknowledge her with a nod and slight bow, which was returned by Arnachen, “…as you know, we were on the doorstep of war with the cantrevs of the East. Many of you here fought in that war, to keep Prydain one dominion with one High King, instead of a multitude of bickering tiny cantrevs, constantly warring with each other. In addition, we fought to provide peace and prosperity for all.”

The observers all nodded, and voiced their agreement. 

“As you know, we were victorious in that war...” The crowd thundered again in applause.

“…and after the last battle was fought, many wanted vengeance. Many wanted the blood of the Kings and war leaders who opposed us.” The crowd was again silent. 

“I was angry also. Thousands of us, and many of my own closest friends, died in that terrible war. I wanted vengeance for myself. The Cantrev Kings of the East, and their war leaders, were all gathered together here, in this very courtyard, for judgement. They expected no mercy; they expected to be hanged here and their bodies fed to the crows. Many have told me that is what they deserved. But as I looked at those men, and saw defeat and resignation in their faces, something spoke to me, and urged me to be merciful.” The crowd continued to listen intently.

“I discussed this with the High Priestess, and together we decided that mercy was the best course,” Rhydderch continued. “If we had all these Kings killed, what would take their place? Somehow, we knew it would be something far worse, more men seeking more vengeance, in an endless spiral of bloodshed and hatred. So we spared their lives. I demanded an oath of loyalty from them, and they gave it gladly. I sent them home to their Cantrevs, their wives and their families.

“Now, they are our closest friends and allies!” the King cried, and the crowd thundered again. “In the past six years, we have grown close, all has been forgiven, and Prydain is the most peaceful and prosperous that it has ever been!” The throng cried out even louder, nothing could be heard above the din. 

At last the noise subsided, the King nodded to the High Priestess Arnachen, and she stood and took his place as he took his seat. She continued, “After the war was over, I was visited by three spirits. They took the form of three old crones, and they told me of this Crochan. I was told that in honor of the nobility and kindness we had shown, we would have use of the Crochan—but only for a short time.”

Govannion’s eyes grew wide. The Priestess spoke of three old crones, but it reminded him so much of his own visit from the three damsels.

Arnachen went on, “I was told that the Crochan could heal, but only if used wisely. If we chose to use it for personal gain, to save ourselves - or if used too often, in a way that cheapened the value of the gift, we could awaken one morning to find the Crochan gone. So let us rejoice in this wonderful gift, for whatever time we have it…and we will strive to use it as it was intended. The King and I decided that only the worthiest would receive the benefit of its power, and only those that we both agreed upon. We have not heard from them again, but we have had the benefit of the Crochan for five years…so they must agree that we are using it wisely.

The King stood to speak again. “Derfei the Healer, please come forward!”

The gathering cheered loudly at the announcement of the name, and men again rattled their weapons. Derfei was clearly well known and liked in the cantrev. Two guards appeared, supporting an old man between them. He stumbled and moved only too obviously with considerable pain. Together they helped him up the stairs to the Crochan’s platform.

The King spoke beside Arnachen.

“For forty years, Derfei has worked tirelessly and selflessly to heal the afflicted of Cantrev Dinefwr, both nobleman and commoner alike. No healer has had greater success, and he is the first to be called to consult on difficult cases. He has always striven to increase his knowledge, and to pass it on to other healers.

“However in the past year, his own disease of the joints has caused him considerable affliction and pain. Not only do we feel sorrow for Derfei, but for all those he cannot now attend to. We hope that our choice is seen as worthy, and that he may be healed. As you all know, on some occasions the Crochan has not seen fit to show its power, it seems to make its own choices on when to heal and when not.”

Attendants began emerging from the Great Hall, with large buckets of warm water. They moved like ants back and forth up the stairs and to the Crochan, each emptying his bucket before returning for more. In a few minutes, the procession stopped. The two men supporting Derfei gently lifted him, and placed him in the Crochan. Because of the size of the vessel, not even his head was visible.

Nothing happened for a long period of time, perhaps half an hour. The crowd murmured softly, and the nobility gathered under the pavilion looked on in silence. Suddenly for a brief moment, the courtyard grew dark, as if the moon and stars themselves had dimmed, and even the torches flickered. Moments later, Govannion looked up at the Crochan, and Derfei’s head appeared. He was smiling as he stood unassisted—and leaped out of the Crochan. 

The gathered crowd gasped, and then there was a thunder of cheers and applause. Govannion was so moved that he cheered and rattled his own sword. 

Derfei excitedly ran down the steps of the Crochan’s platform, and up to the platform of the pavilion, where the King greeted him with open arms and a warm embrace. He then motioned for Derfei to speak. 

“My friends, I have been a healer all my life, and I would have told you that my malady was impossible to treat,” he said with a shaky voice. “I’m still trying to understand…I can only say that whatever power that the Crochan has, it is real…the agonizing pain is gone, and I can move freely once again. For however long this respite lasts, I look forward to getting back to my work, and making some repayment for this blessing by helping as many of you as possible. Thank you!”

Derfei left the platform, and was surrounded by his family, all weeping with joy.

As Govannion took his place in file of folk departing the courtyard, he was still stunned at what he had witnessed. Not even in the Summer Country, where enchantments were fairly commonplace, had he seen the display of this kind of power.

* * *

As Prydain’s summer turned to fall, Govannion busied himself with finding a place to build his smithy. He found an appropriate and pristine piece of land, with large oaks and elms near a stream, for the price of four of his golden coins. On it he built a simple cottage for himself, a small stable for Marij, the fine silver mare he had purchased, and a large, half open building to contain his smithy. 

As fall turned to winter, in the smithy he built his own bloomery furnace, his forge, and his anvil. He purchased metal ore from the surrounding area, and started his own special process of producing fine metal. 

First the ore would go through the bloomery, producing the raw iron. Then, he would reheat the iron in a crucible of clay, along with a special mixture of glass, charcoal and green leaves. The mixture would drive out the impurities and remaining slag, and the resulting ingot of metal would be highly pure. 

He worked the metal over and over, and finally produced another sword. It was a fine weapon, as fine as any that had ever been produced in Prydain—but the water pattern was missing, and the strength and flexibility were no match for that of the sword he had brought from the Summer Country. 

Govannion knew the fault was in the ore itself, and his refining process could not save it. He asked other smiths in Cantrev Dinefwr about any other iron ore that might be available, but none knew of any that was higher quality.

Although disheartened, Govannion carried on. He began producing weapons of the highest quality he could, and by the time the spring came, the name of Govannion the Lame was already becoming famous in Cantrev Dinefwr for producing fine and beautiful swords, daggers and other weapons, and he was soon sought after by nobles and those of means, just as had happened long before in the Summer Country. He also did not forget about his wondrous inventions and toys—the children of the cantrev began to visit regularly to watch the handsome smith at work, and they never returned home without some little treasure from his hands. 

One night in the early spring, after a long day of work Govannion lay exhausted in his rough-hewn bed. He was tired, he had never felt to tired—or so sad. In spite of his successes, he was becoming very despondent, he no longer understood why he was here, or what the three damsels had wished of him. He was even thinking of returning to the Summer Country; what had seemed before so confining now seemed, at a distance, so pleasant and alluring. He had grown to love Prydain, but he could not help but feel that something was missing. As he sometimes did when he felt alone, he took out the golden bauble he had carried from the Summer Country, and when he cupped it in his hands, a beautiful golden light appeared.

Suddenly, the light blazed and then went out. He felt himself no longer alone in the room. He sensed their presence, and knew who they were, even before he saw their silhouettes. This time, however, the shapes were not of fair young maidens, but of old crones. But even in these forms he recognized them: Orddu, with jeweled pins in her tangled hair, Orwen still with her pearls, and Orgoch, her face thankfully mostly covered by a low hood. The eyes, he noticed however, were the same.

“Oh Orddu,” Orwen spoke first, much as before. “The handsome young colt is wide awake. So hard to sneak up on one of these children of Don, they always seem aware of everything at once.” 

“So he is,” answered Orddu. 

“He’s far from home now,” Orgoch said with a smirk from under her dark hood. “If we changed our minds, no one would even miss him too terribly.” 

“Oh that’s nonsense, Orgoch”, Orddu said cheerily. Whether anyone would miss him or not—and I do think that some would—we are not changing our minds. He did everything we asked of him, after all. He’s a man of his word—a true man of honor, just like we thought to begin with. He’s come all this way, and faced many dangers. He has held up his end of the bargain, now it’s time for us to hold up ours. Orwen, you brought it with you, I hope? You’re always forgetting things these days, but hopefully not this time. I would hate to have to go back to the cottage and look for it again—it’s been so long since we made that potion; we might have to start from scratch.”

“I didn’t forget, thank you very much,” retorted Orwen, and stepped forward with a vial. “This is the last of that last batch, my handsome young drake, so mind you don’t spill it,” she said with a girlish giggle. She handed the vial to Govannion.

“You want me to drink this?” Govannion was a bit taken aback, and in spite of the three’s rosy assessment, still exhausted and not quite thinking clearly. 

“Yes of course,” said Orddu, “Of course it’s not really a gift—we never give anything for nothing. But in this case my chick, you’ve clearly earned it, and it’s a fair exchange. We are offering you wisdom and power beyond even your wildest imaginings—yes, we have powers that you haven’t witnessed even in the Summer Country. Our greatest hope is that you will use this power wisely. You have always taken so much joy in benefiting others; that is why we chose you. But how and where you use these gifts is completely up to you.”

Govannion looked at the vial, and in spite of his misgivings, took the cork out. The three were the only reason he was here, after all. He had to trust them. 

He turned up the vial, and drank.


	2. The Sword

The room spun, and he felt the three moving further and further away with every spin, until he was alone. But he was _not_ alone, he could feel human beings around him, his closest neighbors some distance down the path, and his mind flew further to the center of the cantrev, where he saw the castle, and saw King Rhydderch sitting alone at his table, lost in thought. He could feel his heart, his courage and his compassion, and knew without a doubt that here was a man worthy of his title, and his deep respect.

His mind flew over the whole of Prydain that night, from north to south, and from east to west. He saw every cantrev, and every king. He saw joy and kindness, and he saw sadness and cruelty. He saw those that sought to make war on their neighbors, and those who sought to make peace. He saw good women and laughing children. He saw the Fair Folk, laboring in their underground strongholds all over Prydain. He saw the High Priestess Arnachen, in her own High Tower to the East. He saw her silver hair shining in the moonlight, and she turned and regarded him directly—with no surprise or fear, but with understanding. He also understood—she was just as aware of him as he was of her. 

Suddenly his powerful new consciousness drew him southward; his mind flew south, past his smithy, several miles further south, but still within the cantrev. He saw a cottage on fire, totally engulfed in flames. He saw a woman and boy running in desperation, and knew immediately that it was Nia and Osian. He saw two men chasing her, and he recognized them also—Ifan and Cevach. His mind flew toward them, and between them, just as he had that day in the road. His hand reached for his sword, and part of his consciousness returned to his own cottage and room, where he located it and ripped it from the scabbard. The sword rang as true as a bell, and suddenly he was again on the path in the south. The two men froze in bewilderment, and then screamed in terror as the sword found them. 

His mind flew back to the burning cottage, but he could see that it was gone—completely incinerated. He saw Nia and Osian again—they were safe, at a neighbor’s cottage, but clearly highly distraught.

Govannion found himself again back in his own cottage, the eastern sky just beginning to lighten. A few moments later, he left the compound, his mare Marij at full gallop. He left his walking stick—he no longer seemed to have any need of it.

It was only two hours later, the sun not even at mid-morning, when he arrived at the burned cottage. The bodies of the two men were still there on the path, both nearly cloven in two with wounds that had not bled—the edges burned as if they had been cut by a sword just pulled from a burning forge. 

Nia and Osian were there at the cottage, picking through the still smoldering remains. He dismounted quickly, and Nia ran toward him, her eyes streaming. Instinctively he put his arms around her, and she pressed her face to his chest, weeping. 

“Whatever has happened since we parted?” Govannion asked. After her emotions had subsided a bit, Nia smiled sadly, and said, “My father and mother both passed away of disease unfortunately, in the time we were gone. We have been living in their cottage, and both working to make ends meet on the local farms, and whatever we can do. To be honest, it has been a difficult six months, but we were surviving. It was only last night that Ifan and his brother Cevach arrived on my doorstep. They had learned the names of my parents before, and we were obviously easy to track down. Ifan had been furious ever since the day you confronted them in the road, and he has—or _had_ , rather, a long memory when it comes to revenge. They set fire to our cottage, and Ifan threatened to take me again, to make me pay dearly, and sell Osian. What happened later, I have no idea. Osian and I managed to escape and were fleeing for our lives toward our neighbor’s cottage, when we heard the screams. Our old neighbor took us in—and he went back to see if anything could be saved of our cottage. He found the two bodies, just as you see them here. We never saw another person. Obviously as they were hunting us, someone else was hunting them. Who knows whom else they have wronged.”

Govannion said nothing.

Suddenly Nia stopped, stepped back and stared at Govannion, her clear blue eyes open wide.

“You look older,” she said, surprising him. “Not your face so much, but your hair has gone silver—and something else has changed. You also look stronger, as if no chains could hold you…your leg!”

Govannion stared at his own leg in amazement. As he noticed before, it seemed no longer lame, but completely normal. 

Looking at Nia in shock and wonder, he suddenly realized that he was whole in every way.

The rest of the morning Govannion spent burying the two bodies, as Nia and Osian continued searching through the remains of the cottage. That afternoon they spent talking. They avoided the topic of the sudden changes to Govannion, as if by mutual understanding. Govannion remarked at how Osian had grown—his clothing was now a little small for him, obviously the same clothes as the last time he had seen him. Nia’s own cloak was threadbare and patched.

“A few days ago we paid a visit to the merchants in the center of the cantrev, when we heard of a wonderful new lame —or formerly lame—smith and toymaker with a slightly strange accent, who had set up shop in the area,” Nia said with a smile. “We thought perhaps it was you, so we were planning to visit ourselves. Osian has talked of nothing but you for these past six months—although now that he sees you, he has little to say.”

Osian, although a lad of few words, smiled shyly and finally did say politely, “I’m very happy to see you again, Sir Govannion.”

“What we will do now, I have no idea,” Nia said. “I suppose we could try to rebuild again, but we have nothing to start with.”

Govannion frowned, and then his face lit up with a smile. “My own work has been increasing, I have many customers now in the cantrev, and orders are piling up. I could really use some help there, with keeping things straight, supplies and deliveries to customers…” and looking at Osian, …”and also I am in need of an apprentice blacksmith.”

Both Nia’s and Osian’s eyes opened wide, Nia’s also with a few tears. It was clear to Govannion that an arrangement could be reached that would be beneficial for all.

* * *

Late that afternoon, the three were mounted and on the road back toward Govannion’s compound – Nia and Osian on horses that Govannion had purchased from their neighbor. 

Within the next week, Nia and Osian had settled into Govannion’s cottage. He slept in the back of the smithy, behind the warm furnace, and he set about building a new cottage for himself. 

Nia and Osian slowly became more aware of the other changes in Govannion, and he revealed more to them—and to himself—slowly. The two trusted Govannion completely, and understood that he had his own reasons for not telling them more. For their part, they accepted him for who he was—his capabilities as an enchanter were now just part of him, and they did not question him any more than necessary. He had taken to meditating an hour every afternoon; it seemed to be then, and every night when he lay down to sleep, that new visions, insights and knowledge flooded his mind, and he was still busy making sense of it all inside his own head.

One day, after working all morning in the forge, he returned to the cottage for his noontime meal. Nia and Osian looked up surprised, for the din in the smithy was still as loud as if three smiths were inside. “I instructed my hammer and tongs to keep working,” he said with a smile, “I have many orders to fill this week, and no time to spare.” 

* * *

That evening after supper, Govannion sat outside on the small stone wall he had built in front of the cottages, watching the full moon rise in the east over the oak and elms. His heart felt more at peace and at home in Prydain than he ever had, and he knew it was due in large part to his growing affection for Nia and Osian. 

Nia appeared a few minutes later, and more silently than usual, sat next to him, her eyes reflecting the moonlight as she looked upon it. Neither could recall ever seeing a more lovely evening.

Taking himself by surprise, Govannion’s arm circled her shoulders, and drew her next to him. She moved even closer, and laid her head on his shoulder as they enjoyed the beauty of the moon and stars. Again on instinct, as Govannion had never been so close to a woman, he put his hand under her chin, and drew her lips to his. For a few happy moments, neither thought of anything else but the warmth of each other’s lips. 

Govannion had never before considered the words he was now thinking; they had always seemed an impossibility in his life—as he had never before had the ability to be a complete husband to a woman. But now, that was in the past. 

“Please be my wife…if you will have me.” he asked Nia.

“Of course I will have you—nothing could possibly make me happier,” she replied, her breath warm on his cheek. “But we must have a proper courtship. At the end of the year, if you still love me, we shall wed.”

“There is no doubt I will still love you,” he said with a smile. 

The rest of the evening passed as if it were a dream, and Govannion’s head swam more than when he had drunk the potion of the Three.

* * *

As spring moved into another summer, Govannion continued to forge many swords; his workmanship had become famous throughout Prydain. It seemed that every nobleman in Prydain was seeking him out, wanting a blade made with Govannion’s skill. He hired other workmen to finish the second cottage, and enlarge the first one. He began teaching Osian the ways of metalworking, and he proved an eager and capable student. He put Nia in charge of his business affairs, and she began negotiating for him with all those requesting his work—much to Govannion’s relief as he had never had much interest in that aspect of the business. 

The fame of Govannion the Lame had grown so much (for that was what people still called him; they never seemed to take notice that it was no longer true) that he began to receive visits from other great craftsmen from throughout Prydain, who came to marvel at his workmanship. There were smiths of course, but also masters of every other trade. There were great weavers, and potters, and also artisans and architects. They were grateful for learning about Govannion’s special methods, he willingly taught them all he could. For his part, he learned much from them as well, about other trades so different from his own, and he enjoyed their company and friendship as kindred spirits, although they had been brought up worlds apart. 

Govannion made it a challenge to himself to learn enough about each trade so that he could take that knowledge, and give each master craftsman a very special gift with it, before they departed. With their help and knowledge, he created enchanted looms, and potter’s wheels, and other wondrous tools and implements that would lighten their workload and give them more time to innovate and create—which was what fine artists and craftsmen truly appreciated.

One morning when fall had begun, after hours of work at the forge and more instruction to Osian, Nia brought him his noontime meal and the three sat down together at a small table in the smithy. As they ate, they heard the sounds of many horses approaching down the forest path next to the stream. Suddenly the royal banners of the house of Rhydderch came into view. The three stood in amazement as the royal retinue approached, and King Rhydderch himself dismounted from a fine golden stallion. 

As King Rhydderch walked up the path to smithy, the three hurried outside the building to greet him. Govannion dropped to one knee in proper deference, as did Osian, and Nia curtsied as finely as any noblewoman. 

Sire, please allow me introduce Nia, Daughter of Aunwas, and her son Osian,” Govannion said in greeting. 

“Well met, Sir Govannion…and also My Lady, and young man,” the King said in respectful greeting. “We were out for a morning ride, and my war leader mentioned to me that your cottage and smithy were not far. I have heard nothing these last few months but adulation and praise for your wonderful skills, and I have seen a few examples myself of some of your work. I have also heard that you are gifted with the skills of an enchanter. I thought to myself, if every noble and knight in Prydain is seeking one of your swords, a king would certainly be lacking if he did not have one as well. 

“I would like to commission you to forge for me a royal sword. I hope not to have need of it too soon…we are still enjoying a bright and peaceful time, but we have a saying in Prydain – evil is never distant—and evil must always be met with strength and resolve. This sword is not just to be a sword, but a symbol to rally and strengthen the spirits of good men everywhere in Prydain; a symbol of power and protection for all. 

“You are developing quite a reputation; throughout Prydain the name Govannion the Lame is now known. Not with pity, but with respect, as a title of honor. Although I see now that not much pity is due on that account; I see no sign of your lameness myself.

“Will you take my commission, Sir Govannion?”

Of course Govannion did so—but not without a great amount of trepidation. The terms were laid out, and the specifications of the sword. King Rhydderch would also supply fine jewels, crafted by the Fair Folk, to decorate the hilt of the weapon. As the two spoke further, the king told Govannion more and more of his own hopes and dreams for Prydain, for a land where might did not always make right, and where love and compassion did not mean weakness. He spoke also of new enemies amassing in the north and east, and his own fears that the current peace would not last, and that he would have use for this new sword much sooner than he would wish. He and the High Priestess had discussed it at length, and had also discussed Govannion…not greatly to his surprise, as he had seen the two of them in the flights of his mind, as the two of them had also seen him. They knew of his power, and knew that he had an important part to play—although they did not know exactly what, beyond the sword that Govannion was now commissioned to forge.

Govannion made his own decision, to completely trust the King. He told him the new knowledge he had of Prydain; the visions he had seen; his insight into the many Kings and others of note, and their goals and desires. Much of this was new and valuable information to the King, but much he already knew—for the High Priestess, as Govannion had sensed, had many of the same gifts as he, and similar insights. 

When the King left late in the day, the two men looked at each other with an even greater respect. Each knew he had found a kindred spirit, who also wanted a bright and noble future for Prydain and for all who dwelled there.

* * *

That very day, Govannion put aside all of his other projects and commissions, and began planning the sword. For King Rhydderch, he wanted to make a blade that was unlike any other, the finest he had ever made, but his heart was troubled, for he knew that with the quality of the metal ore that was available to him, he could never make a sword that was even the equal to his own. 

That night, as this problem turned over and over in his head, Govannion’s mind began to search as it never had before. Suddenly he sensed something that had previously been hidden, and his mind flew northward like an arrow shot from a giant’s bow. Something was attracting him, and his mind flew over trees with their fall leaves, over steams and small waterfalls, over hills and mountains. 

At last he saw it, glowing in his mind like a river of mercury flowing through the side of a cliff. He saw the vein, and knew at last there was good ore here for fine steel—as fine as any he had once had access to in the Summer Country.

The next morning, Govannion was so excited he could hardly speak, but he told Nia and Osian that they were all leaving on a northern expedition that very day. The three loaded traveling gear and provisions on a wagon he had bought from a local farmer, and by noon they had set out northward toward the Eagle Mountains, with Marij and Yorik, Nia’s horse, pulling the wagon.

The trip north took them six days, through beautiful wooded country in the Valley of Ystrad in the spring, past crystal clear pools and waterfalls. Govannion’s insight led him unerringly, and one day they stopped at a remote mountainside. The dark vein of ore could be clearly seen, like a slice of dark cake between the granite on each side. There was enough rich ore here to last a hundred smiths a dozen lifetimes. 

From there, they traveled to seek an audience with King Garwyli of Cantrev Gwythawc; the cantrev where the vein was located. The king had already heard of Govannion the Lame, and thanks to his curiosity, they were soon able to meet with him. Largely due to Nia’s emerging skill in negotiation, it was arranged for Govannion to officially have claim to and access to the ore—in exchange to Govannion’s agreement to outfit the king and many of his warriors with fine weapons. Nia also arranged with Garwyli for regular shipments of the ore; and wagonloads were planned to be sent south to Govannion’s forge on a regular basis. 

The three then journeyed back to the ore vein, and Govannion set his enchanted tools to work. Soon the wagon carried a heavy load of ore, and the wagon turned back south.

* * *

When they had returned, Govannion set about to forge another sword as a trial; using metal smelted from the new ore. He worked on it for three days, but the result was a flowing pattern blade with strength, weight and flexibility that was a match for his own sword. For the first time in Prydain, Govannion felt completely satisfied with his own work—and his heart rested easier knowing that the sword of King Rhydderch would be something truly special. 

Planning for the sword now began in earnest, and with a new excitement. First, Govannion created plans and drawings to specification, and that work took many days. Nia was a wonderful help, for he found that her skill in drawing and in art was more than his own, and she designed the scrollwork and many of the decorations for the blade. The King had given him an idea of the jewels that would be provided, and Nia’s art and imagination provided much of the rest. Osian helped also, and began transferring the specifications from the plans to the molds. Govannion hand selected the finest of the ore from the special vein, and purified the metal over and over, until there were no impurities whatsoever. All of the work was done by himself or by Nia or Osian; none of his enchanted tools were used for any part of the process. For the King, and for himself, Govannion felt this was the only honorable way.

Finally, after many weeks of work, Govannion was almost ready for the final tempering and quenching of the blade. The scabbard he had already made. Instead of the usual leather, he made it in the style of the Summer Country, of bright light metal, lined with soft fur on the inside to protect the blade. The hilt was ready, beautifully but simply decorated with the Fair Folk jewels the King had provided.

One morning, he again heard horses and a large retinue in front of the compound. He was half expecting to see the King again, but instead was surprised to see the Green Earth banner of the High Priestess Arnachen. Her silver head was visible inside an enclosed carriage, drawn by four horses—the first Govannion had ever seen. Behind her carriage, surrounded by the retinue, was a wagon, drawn by another team of four—carrying something large covered by a heavy canvas tarp. 

Govannion dropped to one knee as Arnachen stepped from the carriage, aided by one of her footmen. She was dressed in black, and strode quickly to Govannion. She offered him her hand, and bid him to rise. “Greetings—Govannion the No Longer Lame,” she said with a cool smile on her red lips. Even to Govannion, who had seen many beautiful women, her smooth reposed features—as if permanent and unassailable by age—were quite striking.

Nia and Osian had emerged from the cottage, and Govannion introduced them. “Well met, my Lady and young Gentleman, Arnachen said coolly, “but please pardon me, for I must speak with Govannion alone.” 

Nia and Osian bowed. “My Lady,” Nia said in response, and taking Osian by the hand, she returned quickly to the cottage.

“I do not mean to be rude,” Arnachen continued, “but my words to you now must be kept between the two of us. Do you have a place where we can speak privately?” 

Govannion nodded, and led Arnachen to the smithy. 

Arnachen cast her eyes around the smithy; the many fine and unique implements, and the tools that she sensed were enchanted. She looked at Govannion with a new measure of respect. She turned to face him, her cool grey eyes looking into him, searching his soul.

“You are not from Prydain,” she said. “I know where you are from, and I have wondered why you are here. I think now that I know, and that there are three sisters who are very familiar to us both.”

Govannion nodded. “Yes, I know them, or at least I have seen them. Twice now, and both times vastly changed my life.” 

“It is so rare for them to intervene in our lives,” Arnachen said. “It is not their purpose, unless there is some great force driving them; some great imbalance that must be countered, to allow harmony to be restored. Within all the lore of my family and our ancestors, it has only happened a handful of times, since the early morning of the world. Now it has happened four times, in a relatively short span of days. First, I was visited by them, and told about the gift of the Crochan, as you have heard. Second, you were visited by them in the Summer Country. Third, you were visited by them again here, and offered the powers that you now demonstrate.”

Govannion started; surprised that she could know all this. “And fourth”?

“Fourth,” she continued, “they visited me for a second time. I was told a bit of your history, to answer your unasked question about why I know so much of it. I was also told…things about future of the Crochan. Although it is now a great force for healing and good, it may not always be so. There will come a time, and a power, that is able to change its nature, and make it instead a formidable force for evil. A force so terrible, it will threaten the very fabric of the world, and quite possibly usher in an era of darkness and terror that lasts until the world is unmade. 

“But even then, there will still be some hope. That hope will come from noble and common folk alike…those of Prydain, and also some of your own folk, who like you, in a future time will make the voyage to Prydain, for the sakes of their conscience, and of humanity.”

Arnachen paused for a moment to allow Govannion to comprehend, and then continued. “There must be a bridge, from our time to theirs. A way to carry some of the current enchantment of the Crochan, before its desecration, and deliver it to that future time. That is where you enter the story.”

Govannion was thunderstruck. “My part in the story…how long in the future will this happen?”

“How long is not clear to me,” Arnachen continued, “but a long time. Many hundreds of years, perhaps more than a thousand. As for your part, it involves the sword you are now planning for King Rhydderch. This sword will somehow survive the passage of days, and it will be a vessel to carry the enchantment that I spoke of. That enchantment, and I believe much more.”

Arnachen looked at him directly. “If I read you well, I believe you are capable of the task before you, although I fear it will cost you dearly. There is little more I can tell you…only this, the sword after its forging must be quenched in the Crochan itself. Then, and only then, can it fulfill its purpose.”

Arnachen and Govannion both looked outside. The tarp had been removed, and there the Crochan sat, in the back of the wagon. Govannion had seen the power of good that was in it, and he was saddened and terrified to think how such a blessing might someday be turned to an evil purpose.

Arnachen’s footmen picked up the cauldron in a leather harness – it took four strong men to move it. They carried it toward the smithy, and Govannion directed them to an open area to set it down. There it would remain, until the sword was finished.

“Now, I will say farewell for now, Govannion the Lame,” Arnachen smiled. She looked at him with what he took to be sadness, and she offered her hand. Govannion took it and kneeled, and returned her gaze. “May all the gods bless you and guide you, and may your burdens not be too great,” she said. She turned and strode back to her carriage, and the retinue soon departed. 

* * *

For the rest of that day and the next, Govannion worked on the blade, making sure it was pure and straight, and ready for its quenching and tempering. He filled the Crochan with fine oil for the quench, and it stood ready. 

He pondered the High Priestess’ words, and wondered at her sadness when she departed. From what he could see, he was losing little. Most of the enchantment of the blade would come from the Crochan itself. He would lay his own strong enchantments on the blade, to keep it from harm. He would pass some of his own power into to it, but he would remain powerful, one of the greatest enchanters in Prydain. His beloved Nia and Osian were with him, he would have his own family. He was respected, revered and loved. His life seemed complete, and had come to more happiness than he ever expected. 

That evening, as he lay in his bed in his cottage, slumber would not come to him. Nia and Osian had gone to bed hours before, and he was quite sure they were sound asleep. His awareness grew, and he knew once again that he was not alone. Three shadows appeared, darker than the surrounding darkness.

“Govannion my lambkin, time to go to work,” he heard Orddu’s voice. “Oh, and bring that lovely golden bauble that you brought from the Summer Country with you.” He heard Orwen’s giggle, and a snort from Orgoch. The three maidens became more visible, and left the cottage. He knew where they were going, so he dressed himself and followed them.

When he arrived, the forge was already hot, the room filled with the glow. Crazy shadows danced on the walls, and the three watched him in their maiden form as he approached, their fair faces flickering in the uncertain light.

“Well, my starling,” Orddu began, “you have made much of yourself here in Prydain since your arrival, you’re as famous as anyone in Prydain, short of the King and the High Priestess. And so well deserved too. Don’t think we haven’t noticed.”

“Are you mocking me?” Govannion asked. “I am here only because of you, and I have tried to do as you asked.”

“Of course you have, my Love, Orwen continued, “we are truly very proud of you, even Orgoch…” 

Govannion heard another derisive snort from Orgoch’ s direction. 

“Yes we are, Orddu continued,” but nothing ever stays the same here for long does it, my fine young cockerel? We have given you wondrous gifts, and you have very nobly and generously made the most of them. On the other hand, as we mentioned before, we never truly _give_ anything…it’s only borrowed for a while, at best. As you might suspect, we have much to ask of you, this very night. It’s time to pass those gifts on, you might say, if you choose to. The choice is completely up to you. You can keep on borrowing them for yourself; even for the rest of your life if you wish…You can remain a powerful enchanter…and marry that fine young woman, and be a father to her son, and even have children of your own, as you dream of. 

“Or, you can choose to give those gifts away. Your enchantments into the sword, and your body will return to what it was before you received them. Your life will be not be what it has been this past year, that is true. On the other hand, you won’t be any less than what you were before you were enchanted. Although, perhaps a bit worse for wear.”

Govannion’s heart sank, and he felt despair rising to meet it. “You could have done all this yourselves. Why involve me? Why would you give me a taste of such power, and even more, make me whole in body, allow me the opportunity to live a complete life, let me see that I can love, and be loved…just to snatch it away from me again? Must you take everything? Must you be cruel to me? I have done what was asked of me. Please don’t take away my hopes, my dreams.”

“But you’re wrong, my eaglet. We _couldn’t_ do it without you. It is hard to explain—but the enchantments are worthless if not given freely, and love and sacrifice is one of the most important parts of the magic—the part that glues it all together, you might say. Again, it is completely your choice…and this won’t really alter who _you_ are at all,” Orddu went on. “You are still Govannion. You are a great, gifted, kind and generous man. Or at least you will be, if you go through with this. We chose you for your character, and so far, you have not disappointed—not in the least.” 

The three gathered around the Crochan as Govannion looked on. As he had noticed before at the castle, it was squat and ungainly, with its crudely formed iron rings and handle, and three inelegant feet. “Not much to look at, is it, my kitten?” Orwen said. “A rather homely thing. Orgoch forged it herself long ago, and she is not nearly as talented as you I’m afraid. Perhaps if she had allowed our help, or had used a better example as a model, as we suggested at the time…”

“It may not be pretty, but it’s always done whatever job was asked of it,” interjected Orgoch, rather defensively as her fair features glowered.

Govannion turned back to Orddu.

“At least help me to understand what I am sacrificing so much for; I only ask to understand. Arnachen has told me much…she told me what you told her, the future of the Crochan is dark. However from what she told me, the magic the sword will carry comes from the Crochan itself, not from me.”

“Oh, that’s definitely part of it,” Orddu went on. Carrying today’s bright enchantment of the Crochan forward to darker times is indeed an important part of the sword’s purpose. But it will need more— _much_ more—than that. The rest must come from you.”

“Perhaps if we show him a memory,” Orwen suggested. “A memory from that gallant fellow who won’t be born for another thousand years or so. We will only borrow it; it will be returned with no harm done.”

“Oh yes,” Orddu agreed. “That might be just the thing. “What will his name be again? The Prince, not the Pig-Keeper. Either would do, actually. Or both. But let’s go with the Prince—he will be a descendent of your older brother Gyngell. Although he will be much more like you than like him—such a wonderful man; your brother can be a bit pompous…oh yes, his name will be—Gideon? No, that’s not quite right. No matter, it will be what it will be.”

Orwen took a poker that had been standing ready near the forge, with it began to stir the oil in the Crochan. As Govannion looked, the oil shimmered and began to form images that seemed to flood his mind not only visually, but with strong premonitions and emotions.

He saw Arnachen in a crimson robe, and quickly realized that it was not her, but the similarity was striking. She gripped a beautiful golden pommeled sword in both hands, he quickly recognized it as a descendent of his own craft. Her lips twisted, mouthing unheard words, and the sword erupted like an exploding sun, falling into shards on the floor. 

He felt and saw himself in a deep dark place, his body and spirit racked by torment. But still he clung to hope, like a sliver of golden light through a casement window.

He saw this sword pulled half from its scabbard, although the scabbard was now black, and the sword flamed with a pure white light. Nearby lay a prone boy, his body covered defensively by a young girl, as a giant in a horned mask raised his own blade. He spoke a word, and the giant burst into flame, like a tree struck by lightning.

He saw himself holding the sword aloft; its blade alive with white flame. He felt pride and a sense of purpose, unlike any he had felt before.

He saw a great and beautiful fortress; he recognized it as the work of his people—similar architecture to the Palace of the Sun. A mighty army was at the gates, and a company of monsters swung a huge battering ram until they were destroyed. A solitary figure stood inside, his sword raised in defiance, and Govannion felt a stab of pain like a dagger through his heart as he was trodden down by the invading army.

“….and just one or two from the other young duckling. He will be so sweet, and will visit us so often.”

Orwen again stirred the oil, and he again saw the blade held aloft, this time by another younger man whose memory he now shared. He faced a warrior with eyes like stones, high on a peak, the wind screaming like the voice of a banshee behind him. 

He saw a weather lined face with green flecked eyes, that looked on with pride as he held the glowing blade aloft. Somewhere close, he sensed a deep and terrible danger still stirring, and the blade sensed it as well—and prepared itself for a final challenge.

The images faded, and the oil was again oil, and Govannion’s mind was again his own.

After a long moment, Orddu spoke.

“Does that help you see, my dear young buck? Not everything is about the present. Some things take a frightfully long time to come to pass, and to fruition. This is one of those things, and you have seen a few glimpses of what is at stake. None of those things can turn out anything close to well, without your help. And even with it, anything good happening is far from guaranteed. So, it is time for you to make your own decision, and I won’t lie and tell you that it won’t set the course for the rest of your life.”

Govannion stood proudly, gathering everything that he had into himself. He then strode to the blade, and took it in his tongs. He heated the blade, and pulled it glowing from the forge.

“As you knew, it will need enchantment for protection,” Orddu spoke again. “…but not any spell, but your most powerful spell for strength, or it will shatter in the quench, for the magic of the Crochan is strong— the blade alone, fine as it is, will not be able to bear it. And, it will need strength to last a thousand years.”

Govannion closed his eyes for a moment, drew in his breath, and began his incantation. He poured his own strength into the blade, until the pain of it forced him to stop. He stood breathing heavily, and sweat poured from his brow. He knew that his own power had been grievously diminished. 

“Yes,” Orwen continued. “Now quench the blade, my dear gosling.” 

Govannion did so, dipping the glowing blade in the Crochan as he held it with his tongs. He saw the cauldron shaking like a living thing, and the blade shimmered and shook as if it would explode, but it held firm, and he drew it cool from the oil in the Crochan. 

“Now we must attach the hilt,” Orwen said. Govannion took the blade and laid it on his anvil, and slid the hilt into place. With a few well-placed stokes, the hilt was attached. As soon as he had done so, he could feel the enchantment of the blade, flowing like a living thing; joining the two pieces inseparably.

“It will need enchantment for nobility,” Owen said, and Govannion stared at her. “Only the wise and noble of heart will be able to draw it. Sheath the blade.” 

Govannion did as he was asked, and held the sword before him. “It will take all of your strength, my chicken,” Orwen said with regret. “You must decide now. You may keep the rest of your power, or give it away. But if you keep it, know that it will not be enough, and the sword will fail in its purpose.”

Govannion closed his eyes, and opened them with resolve. 

Sweating again, he grimaced as he felt the rest of his power flowing into the blade. He poured out his strength until there was nothing left. He cried out in anguish, as he felt the power of enchantment leaving him. He felt his lame leg twisting again, it was back to what it was before, as was the rest of his body. He swayed and nearly fell, but caught himself, his eyes streaming tears.

“I am finished,” Govannion hoarsely croaked to Orddu. 

“No, my Dear,” Orddu said. “There is more. Take out your sphere, one more thing is necessary. Your Lord and Lady foresaw this, and they knew what words to say.”

Govannion took the sphere from where he had set it on a shelf, and held it up. Suddenly light swirled deep inside it, and it began to glow like a small sun. The smithy was bathed in golden light. Then the light congealed and focused; small stars began to fly out of the sphere, one after the other. They flew up high in the room, and for a moment danced as if in a whirlwind, before the dance became a march and they formed lines, and then formed themselves into golden letters.  
  


DRAW DYRNWYN, ONLY THOU OF NOBLE WORTH.

TO RULE WITH JUSTICE, TO STRIKE DOWN EVIL.

WHO WIELDS IT IN GOOD CAUSE SHALL SLAY EVEN THE LORD OF DEATH.

The letters then flew down to sheathed sword, and whirled around the scabbard like a golden tendril of ivy. They sunk into the metal of the scabbard, but continued to glow like molten gold.

“Now heat the blade to temper,” Orwen said. Govannion put the blade back into the forge, and withdrew it a moment later, glowing with heat.

“The blade must have the brightest and noblest of lights to overcome the most evil and dreaded powers of darkness. Now you must quench it again…this time with the sphere.”

Govannion cried out with grief. “This is all I have of them. My Lord, my Lady, my home.” 

“Yes,” said Orddu, her voice again full of sadness. “I truly wish there was another way. But there isn’t, my bravest of eagles. Your Lord and Lady knew this too…they knew you had the strength to meet this moment with courage.”

Govannion hobbled to the cauldron, the glowing blade in one hand and the golden sphere in the other. With a cry, he dropped the sphere in the oil, and plunged in the glowing blade.

Govannion and the three watched as the golden sphere once again grew as bright as a golden sun, the liquid beautiful light filling the room. Then it began to dissolve, and Govannion cried out again. The sphere disappeared, but the oil glowed and shimmered. Finally, the golden light began to fade; then the blade of the sword began to glow with a pure white light that flowed all the way to the hilt.

“Dyrnwyn,” Govannion said, his voice broken, but with pride. He drew the sword from the oil, and held it high as it continued to flame. He then plunged it into the scabbard, and the light extinguished.

Govannion collapsed into a broken heap on the floor, and he knew no more.

* * *

Nia found him the next morning; his body still twisted, his hand still holding the hilt of Dyrnwyn. He looked like a different man; he had aged 20 years overnight. His silver hair was now white, his features gaunt. His leg was twisted, and she knew his lameness had returned. Tears came to her eyes, but then she noticed how his face shown with an inner light of nobility and pride. Whatever had happened, she knew that he had done what he thought was necessary, and had comported himself well.

“Govannion, wake up!” Oh my Love, are you all right?” she called over and over. 

Finally, Govannion’s eyelids fluttered, and he opened his eyes. 

“Nia,” he said softly. She helped him to his feet, and searched about the smithy for a stick that he could lean on. 

“Whatever has happened?” she said, her eyes still brimming with tears. 

“It was a night to remember,” he smiled weakly. “Here, hand me the sword.”

Nia did so swiftly, and her eyes travelled over the bright scabbard, and she saw the golden letters. “What fine work,” she remarked, “even for you.” 

Govannion put aside his prop, and grasped the scabbard with his left hand. He could feel the living blade inside, its own steel heart beating, waiting, and ready. 

He pulled the blade from its scabbard, and Nia gasped in wonder as he held the flaming sword aloft. It was as if it was not of this earth, but something higher; a beacon of courage and hope. Govannion could feel its power, once his—for a moment he felt as if it had returned to him. Then he sheathed the blade, and set it on the table, to await its new owner. 

He turned to Nia, and said, “I release you from our betrothal. Please go and find a younger man, that can give you more children. Loving you has been the best part of my life, but I do not want to cruelly hold you to your promise, now that I am an old man.” 

Nia stared at him, open mouthed in surprise. Then she threw her arms about him, and kissed him passionately. He put his arms around her, and held her close. 

Nia drew back a bit, and met his gaze. “I have never met anyone who was more of a man than you, and I never will. I am yours, and always will be, just as you are mine. Don’t you dare try to back out on our betrothal, I have been waiting for month and months! In fact, I want to pledge my troth to you today.”

And so they did. 

Soon after, Govannion presented the sword to King Rhydderch, and even he was moved to tears by the gift he had received. He used the sword to promote justice, and used it wisely and well, just as the words on the scabbard said, all the days of his life. As he had feared, there were other wars and troubled times when Dyrnwyn was needed, but the King set things to rights with a level of honor and nobility that had never before been seen in Prydain.

One day he rode back to the smithy, and spoke with Govannion. “My friend,” he said, “I can think of no finer man to offer the gift of the Crochan. Please, allow it to help you, so you can enjoy the rest of your days without pain or lameness.”

Govannion smiled, but shook his head. “I thank you, my King, for your most generous offer. You have made me more than proud that you honor the gift you carry at your side. But I am who I am, I have been through enough changes. Also, I sense that the healing magic of the Crochan is not meant for me, it is meant for those always of Prydain. I am content to remain as I am.”

In the years that followed, Govannion the Lame and Nia lived in great happiness, and raised Osian into a fine young man. Govannion continued at his forge; teaching his methods to as many as possible, and he documented and wrote down the ways of all crafts practiced in Prydain, be they metalworking, or weaving, or pottery, or agriculture, and a host of others. He continued to be loved by children, as his toys were still the wonder of Prydain. 

At the end of his life, Nia and Osian stood over his body, as it lay on the funeral pyre. It seemed that half of Prydain had turned out for his funeral, and the King and High Priestess themselves delivered his eulogy. 

King Rhydderch, now an old man himself, turned to Osian—middle aged and a fine metalworker in his own right—and asked him if he had any words to say. 

“Govannion was my father,” he said to the gathered folk, “…and I am very proud to be his son.”

* * *

A few years later, King Rhydderch’s own days came to an end, and Dyrnwyn was passed to his son Rhych, who was soon ordained by the High Priestess as the next High King of Prydain. King Rhych, like his father before him, used the sword wisely and well for all of his days—and remembered and honored Govannion the Lame, as did all who loved Prydain.

The night of King Rhydderch’s death, a shadow passed over Caer Dinefwr. The Crochan—which had stood stolidly upon the high platform in the courtyard—suddenly vanished, as if it had never been.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to my previous story "The Wolf in the Evening Sun," and I may include it as an epilogue after I finish the Gwydion-centric series of stories I am planning - similar to a story from "The Foundling," and in something close to that style. It's about Govannion the Lame, and the story behind the forging of the sword Dyrnwyn. It's a little long for a single chapter, but I decided that in keeping with "The Foundling" style and spirit, it was best to publish it all at once.  
> Many thanks again to Jessica and Dawn for their editing, comments and support! Dawn came up with much more appropriate name for the story than what I had and Jessica and I came up with a pre-history of Prydain that we all could agree on, that is in step with LA's writing and all of our various stories.


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